Moonlight Sonata
by Etherealspring
Summary: After the war, two people come together to discover the powers of love and music. SSHG. HBP and DH noncompliant.  Rated for eventual sexual content.
1. First Movement

_A/N: I started this about the time HBP came out. Rather than try to come up with some reason for our dear Severus to be back at school, I just ignored the 6th book entirely. For anyone who's concerned, I have not abandoned "The View From Saturday", but while that one's in the works, I thought I'd give you the beginnings of this one to tide you over._

_See my profile for disclaimer._

_Moonlight Sonata_

**1st Movement**

Severus Snape brushed a few errant dark strands of hair from his eyes, frowning at the childish script on the tattered parchment before him only a few minutes before dashing a large green D at the bottom. Honestly, the gloomy man thought to himself, demonstrate some respect for your drivel by not dribbling pumpkin juice all over it and then stuffing it in your bag. Show a little backbone.

Snape paused, leaning back in is chair and pinching the bridge of his nose, then rose slowly from his seat. He walked stiffly to the small bathroom connected to his office. Splashing water on his face, he avoided looking in the mirror for several minutes. Finally, his eyes rose almost involuntarily.

Cold black eyes stared back at him, framed by dark sagging circles. Spidery thin lines radiated out from between his eyebrows and across his forehead. But not at the corners of his eyes or thin pale lips. He never laughed enough for lines to form there.

"Severus Snape, you are getting old."

The mirror remained blissfully silent, the old magic one having demanded to be replaced after the tenth time an unwelcome comment was rewarded with a flying fist.

Snape closed his eyes and sagged on the sink, allowing his forehead to rest against the cool of the glass. His eyes ached, his back needed to be popped, and if that faucet continued to drip, he could not be held responsible for what might happen.

Severus Snape was trembling.

No- he opened his eyes- he was not trembling; the mirror was vibrating. And not continually; the vibrations seemed to be coming at a steady walking tempo.

He wondered if he was imagining things, finally cracking after more than twenty years of extreme stress with little sleep.

But no, now he could see the smallest of ripples in the half-empty glass sitting by the sink, as the vibrations became stronger. They appeared to wax and wane, becoming stronger, then weaker again.

Snape straightened up, wincing as his back popped repeatedly. These vibrations must be caused by something. Most likely a student out of bed doing something of questionable legality at any time, day or night, but most certainly not after curfew.

Shrugging on his heavy black teaching robes over a black shirt and slacks, Snape stalked out of his office, determined to track down the source of the vibrations.

He strode down several corridors, pausing at intervals to examine the intensity of the vibrations. After following them back to his office twice, he determined that the source had to be on the floor above. The nearest staircase was still fifty yards from his door, forcing him to seek out the vibrations on the next floor in the same method he employed before.

He circled the halls again, centering in on the source of the disturbance.

Snape could feel the vibrations easily now, when suddenly they stopped. He froze, listening, until they began again, this time faster. His pace also increased, and he could now perceive that the vibrations varied in...there was no other word for it but "tone."

He was close to the source, he could tell, the vibrations now pounding in his feet, sending waves up his shins to his knees. He could hear them. It sounded like music.

His scowl deepened. Who on earth was playing music at this ungodly hour of the morning? Then he smirked. Someone's party was about to be brought to an abrupt and unpleasant end.

But no, this was not dancing music; not party music.

Snape finally arrived in front of a tapestry of a phoenix in fiery flight, its mouth open in silent song. Pushing the heavy cloth aside, his fingers brushed across oak until meeting a cold brass handle.

Drawing his wand from his sleeve, Severus Snape silently turned the handle and pushed open the door.

And froze.


	2. Second Movement

**2nd Movement**

Hermione Granger brushed a few stray brown curls from her eyes, frowning at the childish script on the tattered parchment before her.

"Really, Ronald, you could demonstrate a little respect for your work," she muttered, trying to think of a charm to clean parchment of pumpkin juice.

A red head peeked around the stack of books forming a wall around his brainy friend, grinning cheekily.

"It's just a potions essay, Mione. I'm going to get a poor grade from Snape no matter what the parchment looks like, so why bother?"

Hermione huffed in consternation at her friend's apathy, but continued to correct his essay, hoping to garner him something more than a D.

She paused, leaning back in her chair and pinching the bridge of her nose.

"You about done there, Mione? It's getting awful late."

Sighing, Hermione bent over the parchment and scanned it one final time.

"I've done what I can," she said, shoving the paper in her friend's direction.

"Thanks, Mione, you're a doll." Ron rose, stuffed the paper in his bag and headed for the stair to the boys dorm without another look back.

Hermione also stood, wincing as her back popped repeatedly. She began packing her books, then, realizing the futility of it, abandoned her things for the comfort of a hot bath back in her dorm.

As head girl, Hermione received many privileges. But none delighted her as much as her private bath, even unlimited access to the restricted section of the library, though it would shock the entire school to hear it.

Her bathtub was more of a Jacuzzi, and as such, she made a point of soaking in it for a least half an hour every day.

She shared a common room with the head boy, Ravenclaw's own Terry Boot. The interacted very little outside of official meetings, each respecting the other's privacy. It was seldom that either of them brought friends into the dorm and never without prior consent from their fellow head.

The dorm was accessed by the portrait of a sphinx. Head tradition held that her name was Erinya, and she often was seen stalking the centaurs in a tapestry two floors down.

"Oedipus and Jocasta," Hermione mumbled to Erinya, who demonstrated a great catlike stretch before swinging forward.

Sloughing off her book bag and shrugging out of her robes, she left the entire mess on her personal table in the common room. Entering her bedroom, she sat for a minute to remove her shoes and sock before continuing on the bathroom, leaving various clothing items in her wake.

Finally she stood before the sink, rubbing her eyes. She splashed cold water on her face before lifting her eyes to her reflection.

Dark mahogany curls fell to the middle of her back, the sheer volume of it all seeming to frame her in a rich brown cloak. Chocolate eyes peeked out from under heavy lashes, sparkling with curiosity, and weighted with the dark knowledgeable look of someone who has seen too much evil for her years. Dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes made her cheeks look even paler than they were from lack of sleep or nourishment. Worry-lines already crinkled in her forehead though she was barely of legal age. Years of fretting over Harry, Ron, and her school work had taken their toll on the young witch. But lines were also gently creased at the corners of her eyes and lips from all of her happy days.

Absently, she traced a finger over her collar bone, feeling the bump where the bone had been broken; then down her right ribs, following the long scar left from a nasty slicing hex, courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville Longbottom had killed her mere seconds later. The scar was thick and ropey and she hated it: hated the feeling of such thick, coarse tissue raised against the rest of her pale soft skin, flush against her ribcage.

But her hand was continually drawn to it, a nervous habit. She often found herself tracing the scar while studying, during meals or classes, or even sleeping. She would wake to find her hand at her side, the scar tissue raised under her palm. If she stopped to think about it she might find it disturbing. But she never really stopped to think anymore, not about herself; she just buried herself in her work, in the sensations of being in the world, never reflecting on the past.

And there were so many scars that her fingers could not reach.

Easing herself into the tub, Hermione waved a hand absently to activate the jets, then again to turn on her stereo. Of course, electronics would not work in Hogwarts, but she was not the cleverest witch of her age for nothing, and had researched until she found a charm to do the trick.

Hermione sighed deeply and sunk down farther into the hot water, letting the liquid and music flow over her. Tonight's selection was Tchaikovsky. Not her favorite, but soothing, nonetheless.

She would not go tonight. She really shouldn't. She was surprised no one had caught her, yet, though she had a suspicion that several professors, or at least Dumbledore, must know. She would not go back tonight. She must restrain herself. What was she doing, anyway? She was being ridiculous.

A half hour later, Hermione sat on her bed in a dressing robe, trying to convince herself to go to bed. She had more self-control that this, she silently scolded herself. There was no need for this nonsense.

Within two minutes she was out the portrait hole, treading softly but swiftly through the halls to a certain tapestry.

Brushing the phoenix tapestry aside, she entered, barely aware of her own motions, drawn to the large dark object at the far end of the room.


	3. Third Movement

3rd Movement

Severus Snape did not recognize the piece. It had been years since he had the time to listen to anything on the wireless other than death tolls. He was mainly concerned with the person making the music.

It was a girl- no, a woman. A woman in an emerald dressing gown. Her hair was up in a messy bun, a few dark tendrils hanging loose down her back. A candle flickered in front of her, backlighting her so he could not see her face, only the outline of her profile. She was swaying slightly where she sat, her arms moving quickly.

She sat at the keys of a sleek black grand piano, her fingers flying over the keys. The light of the flame spilled like liquid over her pale hands and the ebony and ivory keys she pressed. \

Severus could see that her eyes were closed, her lush lashes resting lightly on her cheeks. Her lips were parted slightly, and her chin slowly tipped back and to the side.

The potions master was captivated.

The music changed again. Back to the original pounding chords, only louder, slower, and grander. He marveled that the woman's small, pale hands could span the chords, let alone play with such force.

The piece quieted, ending in slowing, softening chords. As the last note faded into silence, Severus tried to speak, tried to move, but found that he could not. Then the woman shifted on the bench and began to play again.

She played so softly, Severus found himself leaning forward, straining to hear. Her hands were steady in the light, but he felt his own shaking.

He felt all sorts of thoughts and emotions, long buried, rising within himself, until he thought he might break. But the music continued to wash over him, filling him, bringing him peace.

Abruptly, he realized the music had stopped. The woman still sat there, head bowed. She moved to put out the candle, and Severus was suddenly overcome with fear. The woman was rising; she would turn around and see him intruding, see him awash with emotions, weak, vulnerable.

He turned on his heel and fled.


	4. Fourth Movement

4th Movement

Sitting at breakfast, Hermione Granger was, surprise, reading a book. Every few minutes she nibbled at her toast of took a sip of juice. At the sound of a loud belch, she set down her heavy tome to sigh exasperatedly at the red haired young man seating on her left.

"Honestly, Ronald, did you never use that gift certificate I gave you for Christmas last year?"

Ron thought for a moment.

"You mean the one for etiquette classes at Madame Puddifoots? Of course not," he scoffed. "Why would I need etiquette classes?" He paused. "Coincidentally, what is etiquette?"

Hermione snorted. Some things never changed.

And some things did, she noted, as Ron raised a hand to flatted and smooth the hair on the side of his head; the hair strategically placed to cover the tattered remains of his right ear.

This was why, almost unconsciously, Hermione always sat to his right. She always remembered to speak loudly and clearly enough for him to hear, while shielding him from curious eyes.

Yes, the wars had left scars on them all. Neville would walk with a cane the rest of his life; Dumbledore now wore a patch over his left eye. Then there were those who hadn't survived. Hagrid's hut remained empty; Mrs. Weasley could never send another jumper for Christmas; Parvati Patil was no longer a twin.

And Harry…

"Is it just me, or does Snape not have his usual scowl in place this morning?" Ron asked.

"_Professor_ Snape, Ron," Hermione corrected absently, while glancing up at the table. Hermione could see it was true. The usually surly Potions Master was not scowling. His features were uncharacteristically blank. If anything, it seemed to her that he looked thoughtful, gazing out into space, his food untouched.

"Maybe he finally got laid," posed Ginny, plopping herself down on Hermione's other side. "I passed him in the hall this morning. I could have sworn he was _humming_."

Ron snorted into his scrambled eggs. "Professor Snape? Humming?"

"Quite nicely, actually," Ginny shrugged. "He must have had a good shag. I wonder who she was? Or he?" She grinned impishly.

Ron began to laugh and promptly started to choke.

Seamus, on his other side, thumped him on the back until he could speak again.

"Merlin, Ginny! The evil dungeon bat shagging anyone, male or female, is even less likely than him humming."

"What was he humming?" Hermione asked suddenly, the first time she had spoken in several minutes.

"How should I know?" Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "You know bloody well that I am completely tone deaf. Could've been 'Weasley is our King' for all I know."

Ron sniggered again. "Yeah, we've all heard you try to sing. Never have I heard such a terrible performance of 'Jingle Bell Rock.' Not that Harry much minded…"

Everyone within earshot suddenly went deathly quiet. Ron paled and Ginny looked close to tears.

Hermione was still buried in her book; the only indication that she had heard any of the conversation traded over her head was the whitening of her knuckles where her small but strong pale hands held her book in a death grip.

--------------------------------

Potions was Hermione's first class. Ron had a free period and was headed for the quidditch pitch.

Hermione enjoyed potion making. She loved the rhythms of chopping, slicing, stirring; loved the absolute, all-consuming concentration it required. She liked the heat on her face, the glow of the firelight, the soft bubbling sounds of her mixtures as they turned the exact color she wanted.

Dropping her bag on the floor next to her work table, Hermione frowned slightly to herself as Snape billowed through the door. The room immediately went silent.

Oh yes, Hermione enjoyed making potions…particularly when a certain Potions Master was absent.


	5. Fifth Movement

5th Movement

Severus Snape had recently come to a surprising realization.

He was losing his mind.

And he didn't care.

Unable to sleep that night, he had spent the few remaining hours of darkness staring into the fire in his chambers, but seeing instead the flame of a candle splashing beams of light on a pair of lily-white hands.

He never ate much in the great hall, but this morning he never even finished filling his plate. All his waking thoughts were consumed by images of the dark goddess who created such beautiful music.

As he strode into his classroom, he was relieved that he had seventh years first. There were only about a dozen students remaining in his advanced potions class, between the weeding out of failures and the casualties of war. And those who had survived both the war and his grueling grading could, for the most part, take care of themselves with minimal effort on his part.

He usually graded papers or potions during this time, only occasionally looking up to make sure no one had set themselves on fire or inadvertently poisoned their partner.

Waving a hand, instructions appeared on the blackboard behind him.

"You know the drill," he sneered.

Taking a stack of second year essays to mark, he picked up a quill and settled in for a few hours of grading.

Forty-five minutes later, the same essay was still lying on the desk in front of him, unread and unmarked.

Severus looked up to find a puzzled Ravenclaw standing in front of his desk, apparently awaiting an answer to whatever question he had just asked. And Severus had no idea what that was.

"Well, don't just stand there, Mr. Boot, speak up," Severus snarled, angered at being caught unawares.

"Sir, it's just- well, I'm done."

"And are you _finished_, as well?" Snape smirked.

"Ye- yes, sir," the confused boy stammered.

For a Head Boy, Severus thought to himself, Boot wasn't all that bright.

Obviously someone thought his jab humorous, as he heard a smothered giggle from the back left of the dungeon.

The part of the room he tried to avoid. Hermione Granger's part of the room.

Of course the know-it-all Gryffindor would get the joke, he thought bitterly to himself.

"You may leave, Mr. Boot," Severus said dismissively, "Homework is eighteen inches on the properties of the five main ingredients in the potion you just completed."

Terry Boot quickly gathered his things and vacated the room at a brisk trot.

Sighing, Severus returned to staring into space in the general direction of the parchment in front of him.


	6. Sixth Movement

_A/N: Thank you to all three of my lovely reviewers, out of my 1139 readers. You make me feel not entirely unloved._

_On with the show._

6th Movement

It was night again. Hermione was making her rounds.

She had thus far apprehended a couple fifth year Hufflepuffs going at it in a closet and a trio of Slytherin second years sneaking back from a run to the kitchens.

That had been over an hour ago and now Hermione was thinking longingly of her bathtub.

She heard the squeak of a sneaker on the flagstone floor and went to investigate. The sounds of shuffling and a giggle floated out from under a classroom door, followed by a low "Shhh!"

Sighing, Hermione retrieved her wand from her sleeve and opened the door softly, calling out, "Lumos."

A girl shrieked and a boy cursed loudly. Hermione squinted, her eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light. She froze for several moments, gaping at the scene before her.

A bumbling Ravenclaw sixth year stood hunched over, trying to fix his belt, though his fly was still undone. His name was Conaire Mor, something Hermione well knew, as he was a prefect: the one who was supposed to be patrolling the corridors with her.

No wonder they hadn't crossed paths in over an hour.

And behind him, a shapely girl was nervously buttoning her shirt while trying to hide behind her companion.

But there was no hiding that hair.

"Ginny Weasley!"

Hermione stared at the young girl she had known for over six years.

Conaire, relieved at not being the main object of the head girl's ire, immediately stepped aside to facilitate conversation between the girls.

"Bastard," Ginny spat at him. Hermione was shaken abruptly from her shocked stupor.

"Fifty points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Mor. Rest assured Terry and I will be speaking with Professor Flitwick about your reprehensible conduct. Now finish your patrol and hope it won't be your last." As Hermione spoke, her eyes never left Ginny, who squirmed under examination.

"Don't look at me like that, 'Mione," Ginny whispered.

Cocking an eyebrow, Hermione asked, "How else am I supposed to look at you, Gin? I caught you having sex, which you should not be doing at all, let alone in a classroom after curfew. What were you doing out, anyway? Did you plan this little liaison beforehand, or was it spur of the moment?"

Ginny recoiled at the verbal onslaught, then spat with narrowed eyes, "How dare you! You are not my mother, Hermione Granger. She's dead, remember? And as such it is none of your damn business who, where, how, or when I fuck! Just because you couldn't get laid if you paid for it doesn't mean the rest of us have to live like eunuchs!"

Hermione gaped at the younger woman whose flaming red hair was forming a fiery halo around her head, before crossing her arms under her breasts and fixing Ginny with her best glare.

"No, I'm not your mother, Ginny. But your mother would be appalled at your behavior. And so would Harry."

At the mention of Harry's name, something seemed to break inside of Ginny. Her shoulders slumped abruptly and began shaking as tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes. Hermione was suddenly ashamed of herself.

Ginny sank down to the floor, her back coming to rest against the desk on which she had been sprawled just minutes before. Hermione came and sat by her, tentatively placing a hand on the red-head's shoulder, afraid that Ginny would pull away, knowing that she had every right to after what she had just said. But she didn't pull away; she laid her head against Hermione's shoulder, her tears dampening her brother's best-friend's robes. Hermione pulled her in tighter, and Ginny went willingly, needing to be touched, to be comforted.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Hermione shook her head, "No, I'm sorry, Ginny. I shouldn't have said those things. It was entirely uncalled-for."

"I miss him so much," Ginny sniffled, "I just want him back. I want them all back. I want things like they were before the war. It wouldn't be so bad if he were dead, like my mum. But having him alive, but unreachable is just so much more painful."

Hermione's fingers absently stroked through red strands of hair, slightly curled near the ends. "Have you tried to see him, Gin?"

Ginny shook her head against Hermione's arm. "I can't. I can't stand to see him like that. Ron went once. He said it was horrible. He's like an empty shell; doesn't recognize anything or anyone, just sits there, staring at nothing." She looked up. "But you would know that. You visit every week, don't you? Isn't that where you go on Sunday afternoons when I can't find you anywhere?"

Hermione sighed. She should have known someone would figure it out. "Does Ron know I visit him?"

Ginny shook her head again. "No. Or, at least, he doesn't want to know. Just like everyone else. They want to pretend that Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, is sitting in a padded room in St. Mungo's." Ginny snorted derisively. "It's ironic, isn't it? He always had what you called a 'saving-people-thing'. Turns out the only person he couldn't save was himself."


	7. Seventh Movement

_A/N: I hate author notes, but I feel obligated to thank all those who have sent reviews. I'm a bit stretched for time right now, as it's my first semester of college and my days are full of classes, work, homework, and various other obligations, such as church. Thank you for your patience. Kindly continue with your lovely reviews. They make the drudgery more bearable._

_I have an outline through chapter 11, so I have a general idea of where this is going._

_And a cookie goes to __**yapyap**__, the only one to appreciate the parallel of the first two chapters._

7th Movement

After escorting a somber Ginny back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione wandered slowly through the halls. She didn't have a destination in mind, per say, but she was unconsciously drawn to the room. Suddenly she stood before the tapestry.

The thick woven fabric reminded her of Fawkes, and it brought a sharp pain to her heart. She could never look at the phoenix without thinking of Harry. The last time they were together, before the final battle. The four of them, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, had been in the Great Hall, waiting for Snape to return with word. He had been called to a huge Death Eater meeting with Voldemort a few hours earlier. Using a spell largely developed by Hermione, assisted somewhat by Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, his return would open a portal straight into Voldemort's throne room, deep in heart of his fortress rumored to be near the northern coast of Scotland.

_The hall was a flurry of activity. Witches and wizards of all ages chattered nervously, paced, or sat in anxious silence. The tension was heavier than Hagrid's rock cakes. And amid all the flutter, the battle plans, the curious stares pressing around the Boy-Who-Lived and his friends, the four of them found a corner in which to convene for a few minutes._

_Harry sat with his back to the hubbub, superficially relaxed, but Hermione could sense the tension in his shoulders, against one of which she was currently leaning. Ginny pressed against his other side, and Ron sat facing him. They alternated between reminiscent conversation, and silent reflection. _

_Their anxiety was only betrayed by certain nervous habits. Harry was running his fingers through Ginny's hair, while she plucked at and fiddled with the sleeves of her fitted robes, a special design for the battle to allow freedom of movement and easy identification of allies on the field. At Harry's suggestion, Hermione had also added certain magical protections, woven deep into the fabric itself. _

_Ron was cracking his knuckles, pausing ever five minutes to bestow the same treatment to his neck or back. _

_Hermione seemed the most outwardly calm, except to those who knew her best. She was breathing deeply and slowly, her eyes shut except when she would contribute a remark to the conversation. _

_They talked about their memories of Hogwarts. The first flying lesson; fighting their way to the Sorcerer's Stone; the Chamber of Secrets; the gain and loss of Sirius; dementors and acromantulas, dragons and thestrals; the Tri-Wizard Tournament and forming the DA. _

_They never lingered on the subject of the Dark Lord himself, though he always had his hand involved in their trials and subsequent adventures. _

_They had once again lapsed into silence, when Snape finally burst through the door, Death Eater mask in hand and black robes billowing behind him. Caught in the morbid mood of the looming war, Hermione thought briefly that he looked exactly how she might have imagined an avenging angel, sweeping down bearing swift and harsh justice to the wicked._

_That very thought would come back to her again later on the battle field itself. She had just incapacitated an unknown Death Eater, of middling rank, by the looks of his mask. Then in the swirling haze of dust and magic, she caught sight of him, dueling with Antonin Dolohov. _

_He had long since discarded his own white mask, not wanting to be mistaken by the Order for an enemy. His robes were tattered and blood-stained, and his lips set in a grim line. Hermione could feel, more than see, the aura of power surrounding him like a cocoon. _

_She only had a moment, but the image was frozen in her mind. She only had a moment, for then she heard a voice behind her._

"_Remember me, mudblood?"_

Pushing the memories down as she pushed aside the tapestry, Hermione entered her sanctuary.

Moments later, Professor Snape entered the other end of the corridor.


End file.
